


The Madness of Crowds

by versaphile



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-05
Updated: 2009-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comicon 2009. John always comes to him, to steal him away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Madness of Crowds

With a gleeful cry, David flings himself from the stage and into the audience's hands. Hand after hand carries him along, pawing and grasping and tugging at his clothes. He whoops in surprise as several in succession goose him, and then squirms away as someone grabs at his crotch.

The heaving mass of humanity beneath him is an untamed thing, and he gasps and reaches for escape. And then a pair of hands grabs and holds, and he's pulled down into a tangle of limbs. 

As his vision clears, he sees a shock of blond hair, bleached and familiar. "John?!" he cries, speaking loud above the roaring crowd around them. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Shut up, I'm incognito," John hisses, shoving at David's side. He slides away, David belatedly realizing he's been kneeling on John's thigh. David begins to push himself up to stand, but John grabs his wrist and hauls him down again.

"Get up and we'll be mobbed."

"We can't stay here! We'll be crushed!" 

With that, John pulls something from his bag and presses it to David's face. An anime mask, David realizes, as John puts on one of his own. He feels at the mask and finds long, spiky, plastic hair. "Who am I supposed to be?"

"Sailor Moon," John says, eyes crinkling. "Now come on!"

John pulls him along as they weave through the throng, past thousands of unsuspecting fans. There are so many of them, wearing his face on t-shirts, wearing TARDIS pins and the Doctor's pinstripes. It's madness, a thrilling, headrush of madness that goes straight to his veins. He wants to go back to the stage and soak it up all over again, but John's hand is tight around his wrist, and that gives him an altogether different kind of thrill.

Finally they make it out. They stumble out, gasping and laughing, eyes shining behind their masks.

David points down the hall. "The con suite's--"

"We're not going to the fucking suite," John says, crude as ever.

"But--" And before David can ask, John is off, and David can only follow. Around the corner, past the lines and lines of fans queuing for panels, past the tables of brightly coloured toys and DVDs and actors' headshots. The shock of recognition still hitting him as it always did, "that's me, that's me, that's me" as he passes TARDIS blue and flaming logo red. Past the whirr of sonic screwdrivers, past the frozen Angels standing in wait. An America more surreal than any he's ever seen, a massive cavern of a room filled with fans a continent and a culture away, yet so much of it _his_. Madness. His hand itches for his camera, to record this for some obscure DVD extra. It's not the heady joy of that first filming block, but god, he wants to save this. 

His face is hot and sweaty under the plastic by the time John slows, stops. There are hundreds of thousands of people packed into this building, and every room is booked, every hallway filled. There is nowhere quiet, nowhere alone. 

"There's nowhere to go," he says, shaking his head. 

But John just points at him. "Stay here." And then vanishes into the crowd.

David starts after him, then rocks back on his heels. The adrenaline rush is easing now, and he wipes at his face beneath the mask. If he takes it off, he'll be surrounded in an instant, like that first night at the door after Hamlet. He'd been overwhelmed, and a little frightened by the mass of fans waiting for him. He'd been unprepared, and for a moment hated them for demanding so much from him, hated them for making that first night theirs and not his.

His back had been aching so badly, and he'd expected Cardiff. A polite crowd, supportive and friendly. But with the mask he's safe. Here, he's safe, because there are a dozen David Tennants, two dozen Doctors in brown or blue. There's a mirror, and he looks into it, and he could be anyone.

He breathes out, and smiles. And then there's a tap on his shoulder, and John is back. 

"Come on," John says, and David follows.

The con has been on for a few days now, and at the back of the massive room are the empty booths. He thanks the blasted economy, and thanks the row of heavy black curtains stood next to the wall, to be used as ad hoc dividers. And he's not surprised when John pulls him behind them, or when his back thumps against the wall, or when the mask is ripped away and John's mouth is hot against his own.

And then the rest of it is gone, all gone, except John hot and pressed against him, plastered to him. Hungry for him the way he always is, the way he was during filming, the way he was when John came to him during the Hamlet shoot. John always comes to him, to steal him away. Let him be stolen.

Sex is a frantic blur, fingers catching on sweaty cotton, calluses rough in just the right places. David pulls at John's tight jeans as he feasts on the crook of John's neck, and nothing is enough. They're both so damn hard, kissing to keep from crying out, musk and sweat and convention room air turning hot around them, trapped between wall and curtain. 

It's David who gets hold first, his larger hand grasping their cocks together, the pleasure making him bare his teeth and growl. John snickers and nips at his jaw, chuckling in his ear as he pushes up David's shirt to bare even more of him. 

David realizes he's mumbling under his breath, muttering John's name, muttering "fuck" and "bastard" over and over. And John is grinning, grinning like a thief. And David knows there has to be more, and it's John who's slammed against the bland wallpaper, David who sinks to his knees, dragging John's jeans from where they sat low on his hips. Down to his thighs, his knees, ankles, and David is the one grinning now, as he sees silky red.

"You wore them," he laughs, eyes dark with intent.

"You dared me," John says, without shame.

"I should dare you more often," David says, remarkably verbal as he caresses the taut silk edged with pretty red lace. John's cock is hanging out, but the silk clings to his balls, and there's a telling wet spot on the front. David pulls the silk up again, tucking John's cock back inside, and wraps his hand around that wonderful bulge, presses his mouth against it and laves, tasting precome and silk.

John's fingers curl and pull at his hair, and John's only sound now is an incoherent groan. David grins like a bastard, and laps and nuzzles and mouths through silk, soaking it in spit and ever more pre-come. He wants to ruin it, destroy the silk completely so he can have an excuse to buy John another pair, so they can ruin another.

John bucks against his mouth, and David's eyes water as the fingers pull painfully at his hair. David smacks at one lacy cheek, smacks again and again, and then sucks hard, until John is cursing, cursing like he'd make a sailor blush, a harsh whisper hissing through his teeth. Until David tugs down the silk with his teeth, and sucks on bare skin, hot as a brand against his tongue, and John is left with only gasps.

David grabs his own cock and strokes as he sucks, senses overloaded with John's taste and scent and touch. He wants to come like this, on his knees in a dark corner, knowing they could be discovered, thrilled and horrified and fucking turned on as hell, _fuck_. And John is whimpering now, shallow and fast and high, _yes_ , god, the sound of him, and David sucks harder, presses his tongue flat and then around, and his own hand moving faster. Wants them to come together, to cry out together, loud and then run, masks half-on through the crowd.

With his free hand he slides fingers up between John's legs, beneath the lace and silk to press and push inside, just the tips, enough to make John buck and his cries grow more desperate, his control going at last. David sucks with the promise of _more_ , of _again_ , and tonight he will fuck John through the bloody _mattress_. And it's that thought that does it, that pushes him up to that crest of pleasure, and he curls his fingers in and sucks and swallows hard and _yes_ , _fuck_ , he tastes that first pulse as he comes, genuine David Tennant come spattering the cheap convention rug, genuine John Simm come dripping from his lips to the floor.

John's knees go out, and he slides down the wall and falls to the side, catching himself on one hand, panting and grinning. David falls back onto his arse, mouth a mess, wiping at it with the back of his hand as he listens for anyone approaching.

"I fucking love you," John says, shaking his head in amazement.

"I fucking love you, too," David laughs, and then his eyes widen as he hears the squawk of security radio.

"Shit," John curses, and they fumble for their masks, fumble for buttons and zippers.

David giggles, can't stop giggling, and it's John who has to shove the mask over his face, John who pulls him up from the floor yet again and drags him along the row of curtains. On the count of three they make a break for it, running full speed past a startled guard, back into the mad throng of the convention.

And they're gone.

 

End.


End file.
